


The Return of Sherlock

by sherlocked11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:59:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked11/pseuds/sherlocked11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reunion occurs in an unexpected place and an abundance of fluff follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return of Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This work was not a solo effort. My awesome, perfect, brilliant best friend wrote it with me! You should all check her out at theresidentdork.tumblr.com

If Sherlock had believed in a deity, he might have thanked him/her/it the moment John walked through the door of the ex-consulting detective's newly acquired bookshop.

In the years after the unfortunate Reichenbach affair, Sherlock had been forced to go undercover, to let everyone think he was dead and buried, disgraced. Even Mycroft had been in the dark until a year ago, until Sherlock had been forced to go to him for help. But the need for discretion had passed, his enemies sought out and destroyed so that they could never harm any of his friends ever again.

All that was left now was to wait for the moment that he could reveal himself to John without inducing serious psychological damage on his friend. So, naturally, Sherlock bought a bookshop on Baker Street. Okay, so Mycroft had bought it, and under duress too, but that was of no consequence. All that mattered to Sherlock was that sooner or later, John would find it and enter, and then... Well, he would figure that out when the time came.

The three years without Sherlock had been hard for John. He had never gotten over seeing his best friend (Was that a strong enough label for their bond? Not even close…) jump off the roof of St. Bart's three years ago. He visited the grave every Saturday without fail, even after he had met Mary. Mary was the only one who had managed to pierce the veil of grief that held him in its grasp. Now she was gone too, and John was alone again. He was thinking of Sherlock on the way home from his shift at the surgery. This wasn't strange. Sherlock was often on his mind even after all this time.

Lost in thought, he quite forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. He stumbled on a crack in the asphalt and nearly fell, which jolted him out of his reverie. As he stopped to catch his breath and slow the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he realized he was standing in front of a bookshop that he hadn't noticed before. He needed a new book. He had finished the one he was reading during lunch break today. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Evenin'," Sherlock grumphed from behind the counter. He thought it a rather callous greeting to the man he had abandoned for all these years, but John wouldn't mind. John wouldn't even know, if all went well. Sherlock had made very sure of that, disguising himself beneath the most thrift-shop windbreaker he could find, ill-fitting trousers, short hair, fake nose, contacts (a very displeasing ordinary mud color), and a whole lot of put-upon grumpy-man attitude.

"Evening," replied John. Clearly this man needed more sleep and a good bath. "Do you happen to have any detective novels?" John had found that, since he couldn't be a part of the battle of London's streets anymore because of the emotions that seemed to incapacitate him each time he tried, escaping into stories of crime and punishment seemed to be the next best thing. It eased the pain of the real world. Everything made sense in these books, even if he could figure out how they ended within the first two chapters. He was certain Sherlock would have them figured out within two pages. He smiled at the thought of Sherlock ranting about the stupidity of mystery novelists. 

Sherlock was hard put to suppress a knowing smile over John's query. Of course. "They're right over here," he grunted, and stamped over to a secluded corner of the many racks. John followed him to the mystery section and began browsing the titles.

"Do you have any recommendations?" he asked the man.

"Hmmmm," Sherlock pretended to muse, even though he knew exactly what to book to choose. He ran his fingers across the books, finally stopping at a short, thick, red paperback with a blank spine. He drew it out, checking the front. "This one's quite good. Had me stumped for the longest time, it did." It had, actually. The author had managed to keep Sherlock intrigued for a full five chapters before the ex-consulting detective had figured out that the murderer was in fact the mortician.

John took the book in his hands and flipped it open to the first page. It was an old volume, and smelled like vanilla. He breathed the scent in deeply and began reading. The style suited him, so he turned to the man and said, "I think I'll take this one, thanks."

Sherlock nodded, immersing his hands in the voluminous pockets of his too-big trousers. Really, the sooner he could get back to his tailored clothes, the better. "Read a lot of mystery, do you?"

"Yeah, when I've got time. It beats watching crap telly," John responded. Watching any television at all without Sherlock was yet another painful reminder of his absence. 

Sherlock laughed at this, rough and scratchy like a haggard old man. "Got it right there, mate. I'd take a murder mystery over Big Brother programs any day." He took the opportunity to make a quick visual sweep of John's demeanor. Depressed, but on the rebound, at least for now. Alternatively sleeping too much and not enough, and eating a bit more than usual. The man'd better be careful, or he'd grow out of his spectacularly John Watson jumpers. He would need to intervene before that happened. Sherlock tried to imagine John without his jumpers and, for once in his life, his mind failed him. John needed those jumpers. 

John managed to return a smile at the man's gruff laugh. Something in the way the man just ran his eyes over John reminded him of Sherlock. But then again, what didn't? "So, do you buy books or just sell them?" he asked. He thought of the piles of cheap paperbacks lying around the kitchen, living room, and his once-clean bedroom. He'd like to get some of them out of there to make room for new books.

"Buy, sell, trade, barter, whatever you like. I'll take whatever you've got." Sherlock gave John the kind of look grumpy old men looking for a good deal give, friendly and obsequious but mildly suspicious. "Got some old books sitting about, do you?"

"Yeah, actually. Got a bunch of them up in my flat. D'you want to come by and see if you'd be interested in buying any? There's quite a lot, otherwise I'd bring them down to you. It's just…" Here he gestured to the cane supporting him, casting his eyes down in shame. John hated mentioning his damn leg. 

Sherlock's eyes softened as John radiated embarrassment. He'd noticed the cane as soon as John had walked in, of course, but had thrust the fact to the back of his mind with the staunch determination of one who didn't want to think about it just yet. John had obviously relapsed in his absence, something Sherlock regretted deeply.

"Course, course," he replied, nodding. "Just lemme close up, and we'll get going." Sherlock stamped over to the counter, a bit quieter this time, to collect the keys to the door. "You live far?"

"No, no. Actually, I live on this street. When did you open this shop? I didn't see it before today. Well, that's not right. I must have seen it. I didn't NOTICE it before today..." John trailed off, realizing that he must sound absolutely mad to this old man. "Anyway, yeah. Take your time".

"Do you? That's convenient. Yeh, I only opened shop a week or so ago, been pretty quiet so far." Sherlock pulled on a paper-boy cap after locking the till. He'd been tempted to use a deerstalker instead, but that would have been far too obvious. He stumped over to the door and flipped the open sign over, and poised himself at the light switch. "On we get, then."

John walked out the door to the sidewalk and waited for the man to lock the door before making his way to 221B. He paused in front of the door and fumbled for his keys. Finally, he got the door open and hobbled upstairs with the old man trailing behind him.

Sherlock looked round as he followed the doctor up the stairs. Not much had changed since he was here last; same foyer, same wallpaper, same steps that creaked if you stepped on them wrong. Sherlock made sure to hit a few creaky spots. Grumpy bookshop keepers weren't familiar with the temperaments of the staircase of 221B Baker Street.

"Nice place you got here. Got it all to yourself?"

John's answer caught in his throat momentarily. "Um, yeah. Well, I've got a landlady downstairs. She comes round sometimes to clean, though she insists she's not my housekeeper," John managed. He looked around. Really, the only thing that had changed at all was the lack of active experiments in the kitchen. Those had been replaced by medical records and paperbacks. John motioned towards the table. "Those books there are some of the ones I was talking about. I'll go up and get the rest".

"Thanks," Sherlock said distractedly, picking up a book and pretending to inspect it as he listened to John struggle up the stairs. As soon as he was sure the doctor was out of earshot he started pulling his oversized clothes off, revealing the sleek black lines of tailored trousers and jacket over a pale blue shirt. He took a few seconds to rip the fake nose off, wincing as the glue relinquished its grip on his face. Should he take the contacts out? He better. Ignoring the discomfort, Sherlock swiftly plucked the lenses out of his eyes, creasing them in his haste. He wouldn't need them again anyways.

For a moment Sherlock pondered again over the wisdom of such a dramatic reveal, before dismissing his worry. Best to get it over with, and it was better if it was here in familiar territory. Facade stripped away, Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table, legs crossed and hands pressed the wood. John should be down any minute.

John had retrieved three books from among the numerous strewn around his bedroom. He considered trying to grab more, but realized he wouldn't be able to manage the stairs if he did. Damn his leg! He started back down the stairs and reached the living room. "These are the ones-" John looked up from the spines of the books to see Sherlock leaning casually against the table. He dropped the books and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Oh god, Oh god, I'm going mad. I'm insane," he thought. John felt his legs give out from under him, and darkness fogged over his vision. For the first and only time in his life, John Watson had fainted.

Sherlock had anticipated a myriad of reactions from John, but a grand total of none had involved the ex-soldier collapsing. Sherlock lurched from his relaxed position, bounding over to John's side in two long strides. He leaned over the supine figure, fingers trembling as they quested at John's pulse points.

"John, are you all right? John!" 

Pulse was strong, but the man was not awakening. Sherlock was quickly becoming frantic, his mind a useless blank, hands hovering hesitantly over John's body, uncertain as to what to do. Eventually he mustered enough brainpower to pull John's shoulders into his lap, cradling the unconscious man's head in his arm. 

"John, wake up!" Sherlock gave John's cheeks a few light slaps, but there was no reaction. Finally, totally out of his depth and out of ideas, Sherlock bent his head over John's and gave the man a desperate kiss, willing him to wake and open his eyes. That was how it worked in fairy tales, wasn't it?

"C'mon, John, c'monnnn..."

John became aware of pressure on his lips as his surroundings slowly swam into focus around him. "Sherlock?" he managed to mumble. He realized his head and shoulders were being cradled by a very distressed looking Sherlock. The position was comfortable and he could smell the wonderfully familiar sent of Sherlock surrounding him. He wiggled around until he could see Sherlock's face clearly. Dear god, the man looked as if he was about to weep!

"John!" Sherlock cried out in relief. John was awake, he was okay! A wave of emotion crashed through him, and he buried his head against John's chest, trying and failing to keep his breathing under control as he gripped the man tighter. "Oh god, John. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sherlock! It's all right, it's okay. I'm here, it's okay," John whispered to Sherlock. He gripped the other man tightly. He couldn't quite believe what was happening. He must have hit his head very, very hard when he tripped. He hoped the old man had the sense to call an ambulance. But he didn't want this hallucination to end. It was so perfect. His Sherlock was back and holding him close. Everything was all right. It couldn't be real, but for now, it was all fine.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh weakly into John's jumper, slowly coming back into himself, his cool starting to settle back in place. He pulled out of John's hold gently, straightening so that he could look his friend in the face.

"For all my reasoning skills, I couldn't even predict the outcome of a simple reunion. Some detective I am." He gave a small smile, quirked his eyebrows. "Hello, John. I'm back."

John reached up and wiped away a tear from Sherlock's cheek. It felt real enough. John slowly got to his feet, pulling Sherlock up with him. He stood there silently looking at his friend, face unreadable. As the shock started to wear off, John felt anger well up in him. Anger at Sherlock for leaving, anger at the weakness he had just displayed, anger because of the three years of living a hollow life filled with sadness and painful memories. He felt tears burning in his eyes and turned away, now convinced that this was real. 

"It's been three years, Sherlock. Three years. Why didn't you tell me?" He barely managed to choke the last sentence out through his distress.

Sherlock had watched John's face carefully as they rose, watched the anger redden in the doctor's cheeks and well up in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't surprised; he'd done a shoddy thing to John, almost unforgivable. He wasn't surprised, but it still hurt.

"It wasn't safe, John. I gained a lot of enemies the very second Moriarty died, and every last one of them would have come after me if they thought I was still alive. They would have used everything they had to make sure I was destroyed. They would have..." Sherlock's voice broke, and he had to clear his throat. "They would have tortured and killed you, you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade... Just to get to me."

Sherlock reached out and touched John's hand, hesitant. "But it's safe now, John. They're all gone. Every single one of them, dead or imprisoned. I took care of them all, just so that I could come back home." Sherlock's eyes implored John to understand. "So that I could come back to you. Please forgive me, John. I never wanted to hurt you like this."

John turned to face Sherlock. He saw the hurt written on the taller man's face, the hurt that only John knew to look for. He took Sherlock's hand. "Don't you dare leave me again, Sherlock. Don't you dare".

Sherlock released the breath he wasn't even aware he had been holding, the rush of air crackling loudly through his suddenly constricted throat. He smiled hugely, eyes moistening. He couldn't believe it. John had forgiven him, in some small way. He tugged the smaller man into a crushing embrace, pressing his face against John's military-styled hair. It smelled like shampoo and cleaning agents and wool jumpers and sawdust, so wonderfully John. 

"Never, John. Never again."

John returned the hug, surprised by the sudden physicality Sherlock was displaying. He smelled like old books, chemicals, soap and his wool coat. Perfectly Sherlock. It was too much. The well of tears that he had held back for three years came rushing out and he desperately hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, or at the very least, wouldn't say anything.

Sherlock felt John's weeping, felt the doctor's chest heave erratically and the shoulders collapse inwards. He said nothing, deciding instead to tuck John's bowed head under his chin and gently stroke his back, swaying side to side imperceptibly. He patiently waited until John's breathing steadied to speak again. 

"It was so hard, John," he murmured, his baritone voice rough. "I didn't realize how much I needed you until I couldn't have you anymore."

John sighed into Sherlock's jacket. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." 

He looked up into Sherlock's face and studied it, trying to memorize every detail, burn every last eyelash into his memory. John decided in a flash that if Sherlock were to die again, he would follow close behind. He could not live through it again. He would rather die than be without his Sherlock.

"It's going to be all right now. I'm glad you're home." John beamed up at his partner and hoped those words would be enough to convey what was in his heart.

Sherlock grinned back, squeezed John momentarily, then stepped back carefully but swiftly, making sure the doctor was steady on his feet. Satisfied with the doctor's balance, he stepped into the middle of the living room, taking the room in with quick sweeps of his eyes.

"Hasn't changed a bit, John." He turned back to face John, still smiling. "I'm honored. I take it my room is similarly intact?"

"Of course. Although, I must warn you, I made the bed. Just... don't freak out," replied John lightly. "Also, the skull is in my room. He can come back down if you like."

"Wonderful, wonderful." Sherlock was pacing now, smile still lingering on his lips. He felt oddly energetic now, the relief of John's forgiveness sparking through his system like no drug ever could. "You can keep him, I don't need him anymore. How's Mrs. Hudson?"

John watched his flatmate as he practically bounced around the living room. He couldn't stop smiling and, quite frankly, didn't want to. He hadn't been this happy in a long time. "She's good. Still cleaning, still claiming not to be our housekeeper. OH LORD." John's eyes widened. "We have to tell her, Sherly! Wait, no. I have to tell her. You'll give her such a shock she may not be able to recover. She's on holiday right now, but when she comes home, you are under no circumstances to let her see you without letting me have a chance to speak first. D'you want tea? I'm making tea".

And with that, John bounded into the kitchen and started his preparations. 

Sherlock wandered away distractedly as he waited for John to return with his precious tea. His room was indeed almost exactly as he had left it, stuff strewn haphazardly over the floor but bed made. No dust, so Mrs. Hudson had been in, and recently too. Sherlock ran his hand over the bedcovers. There was an indent in the middle... Had John been lying on his bed? He leaned over and sniffed cautiously. Wool jumpers and shampoo. John had definitely been here. Sherlock smiled softly to himself. Three years ago he would have been scornful of the man's sentimentality. Now he understood the feeling exactly.

The kettle whistled and John made the final preparations to the tea. He placed the toast, tea, and jam onto a tray and strode into the living room. Sherlock wasn't there, so he left the tray on a clear bit of table and went to look for him. He walked towards the stairs and heard Sherlock roaming around his bedroom. John entered the room, looking a bit sheepish for intruding. "Everything all right, then? I didn't let Mrs. Hudson throw anything out. It…It didn't feel right." John fervently hoped that Sherlock either didn't notice or didn't care about the John-sized dent in the covers. 

Sherlock turned to John with a smile. "Yes, perfect. Everything's perfect." He strode over to his wardrobe and swung it open. Everything was in order here too. "I only wish I had my coat..." Sherlock looked at John, regretful. "I had to leave it after the fall. I have no idea where it is now." He sighed and shrugged. "My scarf too."

John face turned bright red, and her rushed out the door into the living room with a hurried, "Good, good."

Sherlock stared after him. Obviously his comment about the coat had set John off. But why? Maybe… No, it couldn't be. Had John really?

"John, do you know where my scarf and coat are?" Sherlock called as he sauntered into the parlor. He watched as John turned an even more lovely shade of red, and fiddled with the tea settings. 

"I might have asked Mycroft to give them to me rather than be tossed after you died," muttered John. "Don't worry, though. I mean, obviously I had them cleaned." He shuddered. "I couldn't stand all that blood on them." Abandoning the tea, John rushed up to his room.

Sherlock could hear rustling as John dug through his closet, and waited patiently until he heard footsteps as he descended the stairs. He beamed when he saw his beloved coat and scarf on John's arm. Clever man. He accepted the articles and slipped them on reverently, the weight of the long coat and cozy scarf settling on his shoulders delightfully familiar.

Sherlock stuck out his arms and turned in a circle gracefully. "Well, John? What do you think?"

John could only laugh at the boyish grin on Sherlock's face. "It's brilliant, Sherlock. Welcome home".


End file.
